You loved me because you felt someone needed to, or so you said. I don't know why that comes back now: those times are gone, and past, and dead, But memories come as silence guides, past icy forest's frozen shields, to someone who once needed love so much, he took one quite unreal
You just couldn't know what we were back then (And I know it's a weakness to look back on strength) The glories were few, the mistakes came again and again, as we worked to go every length -- But then -- there were days, in the silver sun, When the world fell away for we fleeting few Who believed on the shores in eternal things, And who ran, because running was all We knew
"The Lord God paints the sunset, the sky's His gallery --" I hear the words as they were said, those years ago, to me -- And through the shades of sunset, I can see what was meant: the things we know but cannot prove were our way heaven-sent
They tried to make things beautiful, Most years, they'd change a room -- They hung lights and placed furniture To stem the backyard gloom And we were rich, as some would reckon, Three kids, mom, and dad: We owned a house, we owned some things, But love was the best we had. My father fought in Vietnam, My mom was raised in sorrow; We didn't owe a lot, my folks Were rather loth to borrow -- And things were calm, as some would see it, Yet we had seen loss: And though they made things beautiful, They felt it worth the cost To sit outside and watch the lights, Together, with the birds, And tell us that they loved us, though That wasn't said In words
it takes two to tango, plus fourteen more to trip: i told my truth in such a group, or maybe, let it slip but i am grateful, for it, now: there's really no denying that when you're trying everything, you know at least you're trying
We wrote love letters on the grass we walked upon, with hand on hand, we spoke of all that it might mean, and thought that we could understand But love, that love, was so much more than either of us then could know: we wrote love letters on the grass, for it, like love, could only grow
prizes won for service given to the dead
in times perhaps more innocent were countless perfect hours spent flashlight in hand and book on ground reading in an indoor tent it neither blocked out light or sound the pages read were not renowned for being literature at all and yet adventure there was found one still can see, can clear recall the stories large through eyes yet small while reading in an indoor tent with linen for both roof and wall
my father loved his apples, he had an expertise from hours spent when just child picking them off trees. i see them now, and think of how they kept him happy, trim -- my father loved his apples, and i guess i loved him
